


How To Win Friends And Influence People

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anniversary, Childhood, Drugs, Hiatus, M/M, Retirement-lock, Sherlock-centric, Wedding, uni - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7931743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has worn many disguises in his lifetime.  Sometimes to blend in, sometimes to hide who he really is.  It takes a long time to find someone who will strip away the armour that he uses to protect himself against the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Win Friends And Influence People

**Author's Note:**

> This was an unexpected story. [Yes, I am still working on my long AU.] But sometimes things happen. This story began when I read a forwarded Tumblr posting about how Sherlock uses his wardrobe and his personal appearance to get people to like and trust a recovering drug addict. Read it, thought 'how sad and how interesting' and promptly moved on, sadly not even noting who had written the post. [Sorry!] But the idea stayed with me, niggling away and this is the result. I hope you like it and if anyone can tell me who wrote the original post, I will give due credit for inspiring me. Comments always appreciated.

1

William Sherlock Scott Holmes had never thought very much at all about what he wore. Clothing just happened. Every morning fresh pants [plain white cotton from Marks and Spencer], socks [never white], trousers [long or short, depending upon the season], and shirt [solid colour polo or long-sleeved button down; no logos ever] would appear on the chair in his bedroom. He donned whatever was there and the day would begin. It was a tidy system that worked to his satisfaction.

But he was turning five soon and it seemed as if life was about to change.

That was made abundantly clear on the day that Mummy came home with his first school uniform. The Lent term of reception class was starting in just a few weeks and apparently clothing was important. Everyday for a very long time he’d seen Mycroft on the other side of the breakfast table, wearing his uniform, but had never really pictured himself that way.

At Mummy’s request, he tried on the dark navy short trousers, white polo shirt, grey blazer. Which did have a logo on the front, as well as the name of the school. He frowned at the sight, but then Mummy fussed a little about the fit of the blazer, deciding that the sleeves needed to be shortened a bit.

When she left the bedroom, presumably to contact Daddy’s tailor, he remained standing in front of the mirror, looking at himself critically. It was too early to decide whether or not he liked this new person.

*

A new person who had the wrong name, apparently.

Mrs Olney, a plump grandmotherly woman [although nothing like his own Grand-Mere, who was very thin and spoke French] stood in the front of the classroom and called the name of each student, who then had to stand and answer a few questions about his family and what he liked to do for fun.

So far, Sherlock decided, the other boys seemed like a dull lot and he began to understand Mycroft’s daily whining about being bored-bored-bored.

The teacher’s gaze fell on him much too soon. “William Holmes,” she said.

He just looked at her.

“Stand up, William, and tell us about yourself,” she said, not unkindly.

He pushed himself up, standing next to the ridiculous desk. It was much smaller than the one he had at home. How was he supposed to do any experiments on it? But first things first. “My name is Sherlock,” he said, taking care to speak politely. Mummy liked good manners and she would be proud of him.

She glanced down at the list in her hand. “No,” she said. “William is what it says here.”

“My other name is Sherlock and that is what everybody calls me.”

Mrs Olney did not quite frown. 

He smoothed the front of his perfectly tailored blazer. “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I live in a big blue house with Mummy and Daddy and my brother, who nobody calls Robert. And my dog, Redbeard. For fun I do scientific experiments and read about pirates.”

He sat down again.

That afternoon, when she came to collect him, he told Mummy that if it was all the same to her, he preferred not to go back to the school again. She only gave a soft laugh and said that he looked very handsome in his uniform.

 

2

Sherlock paid very little attention to what happened around him.

Well, that was patently untrue, of course. He paid attention to everything, but without ever really being a part of any of it. He went from classroom to lab to residence hall, having no more interaction with others than was absolutely necessary. What interaction there had been thus far was not by his choice and not very pleasant for the most part.

In the beginning, Sherlock had tried, seeing the transition to this new school as a chance to start over and correct whatever had made him such a misfit at the other school. He was not quite sure when or why things had gone wrong here. Probably the very first day, although he had not intended to draw any negative attention to himself. But, really, if people were going to be idiots wasn’t it kinder to point out their mistakes so that they could be _less_ idiotic?

Anyway.

It was not until this last day of Michaelmas term, when a sheet of vivid yellow paper was slipped under his door before dawn, that Sherlock realised he had apparently missed [ignored] news about yet another ridiculous social activity.

NO UNIFORM DAY!   
DON’T FORGET THAT TODAY, TO CELEBRATE THE LAST DAY OF TERM, YOU DON’T HAVE TO WEAR YOUR UNIFORM! DRESS AS YOU LIKE!

That declaration of freedom was followed by a short list of rules defining what would and would not be acceptable.

Sherlock snorted. Would anyone really turn up in class wearing swimming trunks? Especially in winter? Or pyjamas in any season?

His first inclination was to ignore this whole thing, as he had ignored all of the other social activities. [Except for the first day mixer, which he had rather optimistically attended, but the less said about that the better.] But did he want to be the only one in school wearing the uniform today? Why let himself in for even more bother than usual?

So he went to the wardrobe and took out the new black suit that he’d not worn once since arriving at school. Perfect.

He used the scissors from his desk to clip a couple of visible loose threads and carefully worked to open the tacked pockets. After a quick shower and his usual hair routine, he donned a new dark maroon shirt and the plain waistcoat, leaving the bottom button undone. Once he had the trousers on and had checked to assure that the hem fell just to the top of his black shoes, he pulled the jacket on and examined himself in the inadequate mirror.

He used the fabric brush quickly and was ready.

It was immediately apparent that most of the student body had decided to go with ratty blue denims, t-shirts advertising bands which Sherlock was not familiar, and trainers. Some were in sweatpants.

Sherlock was aware of the looks tossed his way as he walked over to the science building, but he just ignored them and took his usual seat in the chemistry classroom.

Professor Morton scanned the room to be sure that everyone was present. “Very nice, Holmes,” he said.

Sherlock just tipped his head a bit in acknowledgment.

“Fucking poof,” someone whispered from behind him. Someone else giggled.

Sherlock ignored that as well, tugged the cuff of each sleeve down just a smidgen and opened his textbook.

 

3

He was willing to compromise.

Well, to a certain extent and in [large] part only to prove a long-ago therapist wrong.

Seeking to make yet another new start and excited that he was finally going to be at Cambridge, which had to be a more rarefied atmosphere than prep school, Sherlock had packed carefully for his new life. Yes, the blue jeans had been properly tailored, the polo shirts still were logo-less, and while he could not bring himself to accept trainers, at least he wore casual slip-ons rather than his more familiar dress shoes. He was trying.

Feeling the need for one more layer between himself and the world, he added a single-breasted black suit jacket to the jeans and polo.

So far, the new look seemed to be working. Admittedly, to this point [only three days into the term], he’d had very limited contact with others, which was probably for the best. But all in all, Sherlock was feeling relatively content.

Which was always dangerous, of course.

He was in the chemistry lab [the facilities were acceptable] finishing up an interesting experiment on haemoglobin when the door was pushed open. Sherlock ignored the footsteps approaching.

“Good god, it really is you,” a vaguely familiar voice said. “I could not believe it when they told me that Sherlock Holmes was in my residence hall. But I knew that if it was true, you’d be geeking away in the labs.”

Finally Sherlock glanced up. A name came that matched the fatuous face he had hoped to never see again. “Wilkes,” he said lazily. “It was my happy understanding that you had failed in your mission to secure a place here.” He switched out the slides and returned his eye to the microscope, smirking as he spoke. “Oh, of course, your grandfather’s influence paved the way. Again.”

Wilkes stepped closer to peer at the things cluttering the surface of the lab table, moving a hand towards the rack of test tubes.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sherlock snapped.

Wilkes sneered. “You never change, do you, Holmes?”

“Why would I?” Sherlock was almost genuinely curious.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe so that people would think you were normal?”

“Normal sets such a low bar, doesn’t it? By the way, how is that social disease? Cleared up yet?”

“Fuck off.” Then Wilkes gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, sorry, I forgot that even with a million dumb birds in the world you can’t find one to fuck you. If a bird was even what you wanted. Which I doubt.”

Sherlock was bored with the conversation, so he didn’t respond.

Wilkes glanced at the gold watch on his fleshy wrist. “Well, apparently you like it when people call you freak.”

“No one here calls me that,” Sherlock said. Stupid, he thought immediately. Stupid, stupid.

Now Wilkes smiled, shark-like. “Not yet they don’t.”

Then he turned around and left the lab.

Sherlock worked on for a few more minutes and then decided that he wanted tea. He tidied the table just enough to forestall any complaining, before going to retrieve his jacket from where it was hanging in the back of the room. He slipped it on, leaving the bottom button undone. Still standing there, he carefully brushed a little lint from one sleeve, before straightening the collar.

Finally he left the lab, turning off the light as he went.

 

4

It was Xmas!

Well, not actually, of course.

In reality, it was a very un-English muggy night in mid-July, with no sign anywhere of reindeer or holly. But it felt like Xmas to Sherlock. Usually, after all, he had to prowl the streets looking for some excitement [when he wasn’t prowling them looking for his dealer], but this time the excitement had come to him.

A murder right next door was much better than plum pudding. Even Mummy’s plum pudding, although he probably shouldn’t say that to her. Not that Mummy was inclined to talk to him very much these days.

He’d first become aware that something of interest was happening when a shrill scream ripped through the thick night air.

Sadly, screaming per se was far from rare in this neighbourhood, but the sound of this particular one was rather different. It contained fear, not anger. Horror, not petty disagreement. It caused Sherlock to immediately roll off the narrow and frankly filthy mattress that served as his bed these days. Sometimes he missed Egyptian cotton sheets. _Clean_ Egyptian cotton sheets. Hot showers. Hot _tea._

But he had chosen this life and so he could not really complain. Not that there was anyone to listen had he done so.

After the scream had propelled him off of the mattress, Sherlock padded over to the window and looked down to the pavement. The woman was standing there, still screaming, but now she was actually saying something. “Murder! Help! Murder!”

Sherlock cursed the fact that on this particular night he had decided to stretch out on the mattress, rather than perch on the window ledge as he most often did; otherwise, he might have actually seen a killer arriving or departing.

But all was not lost.

Completely forgetting that he was wearing only a pair of tattered silk boxers and an inside out t-shirt, he went out into the corridor and then through a window to the fire escape that took him to the roof. From past experience, he knew that it was an easy jump to the neighbouring building and also that the service door there was never locked.

His next step required a bit of deduction. Pausing in the corridor, he ran through his mind what he knew about the occupants of this building and what he had noticed about the screamer outside, all of which led him to go down one flight to a flat on the second floor. The door was standing open.

Taking care not to touch anything, he stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene. The woman’s body was on the floor in the middle of the room with a long-handled knife protruding from her chest. A dusting of white powder covered the top of a rickety end table. For one very brief moment, Sherlock considered trying to retrieve the cocaine, but even in his muzzy state he realised that would be not good.

Instead, his gaze raked over the room, seeing exactly what had to have happened. By the time Sherlock heard the downstairs door burst open, followed by the pounding of several sets of feet on the stairs, he knew everything he needed to. 

Immediately, he ran back up to the rooftop, taking the time to close the door before jumping across to his own building again.

From his window, he had a perfect view of the scene below.

When the detective finally turned up, Sherlock studied him carefully. Not long in homicide and this was, in fact, his first solo murder case. Which did little to excuse all the wrong conclusions he was coming to. Pathetic, really.

Sherlock decided that he had to go set things right. Immediately.

Probably not in his boxers, however.

He went to the cardboard box that served as a makeshift wardrobe and pulled out the least wrinkled of his black trousers. Sadly, all of his button-downs were filthy and smelt a bit. He managed to find one of his polos from uni and donned that. A couple of shakes and the suit jacket would do.

Finally, he slipped on a pair of shoes, tucked the collar of the polo inside the jacket and headed downstairs to set the idiot from Scotland Yard on the right path.

Sadly, the detective was not enough of an idiot to overlook Sherlock’s dilated eyes or sweaty pallor and so threatened to run him in on drug charges if he didn’t get the hell away from the crime scene.

Sherlock wished he had thought to always keep one suit and one shirt clean and unwrinkled for moments like this. Then, perhaps, he would be listened to and trusted, even by Scotland Yard.

The next morning he went to a callbox and rang Scotland Yard with an anonymous tip. Then he took his black suit and two of his best shirts to the Chinese laundry up the road. Clean, respectable clothing was more important than dinner.

 

5

After fifteen minutes, he was confident that a sheepishly grinning John was not going to come dashing back into the flat in search of his forgotten phone or Oyster card or whatever else he’d gone off without.

So finally Sherlock felt it was safe to go up the stairs to John’s bedroom. He’d been in there before, of course, while John was off at work or shopping or at one of those other places he felt it was necessary to be rather than where he belonged. Which was right here. With Sherlock.

Some, of course, would probably consider this to be bit not good. As if Sherlock were just snooping to be snooping.

Well, he had a right to find out all he could about a person sharing his flat, right? To that end, he had examined John’s meagre belongings more than once. Looking for clues to the man.

If there were more to it than that, Sherlock was not yet prepared to admit it, even to himself.

Today’s expedition had a specific target.

He went directly to the wardrobe and opened the door. Inside, it was tidy in a military sort of way, but without the rigorous sense of organisation which Sherlock imposed upon his own garments. Briefly, he wondered if perhaps John might welcome a little friendly advice on the subject.

Probably not.

He shoved away such insignificant musings and put his attention on the garments themselves. Wire hangers, of course. Which he would have thought even John would be clever enough to avoid. Apparently not. 

Three pairs of denim trousers.

Two pairs of khaki trousers.

Two pairs of wide wale corduroy trousers [one dark brown, one navy blue].

One black suit.

One sport coat.

Eight shirts of varying colours and patterns.

Several really rather dreadful ties.

On the floor beneath the clothing, set in a tidy row, were four pairs of shoes: black lace ups, battered trainers, brown slip-ons, and, oddly, a pair of Birkinstocks that Sherlock had never seen John wearing. Thankfully.

The shelf above held a neat pile of folded jumpers and Sherlock was only absently aware of the faint smile that touched his lips as he ran one hand over the soft garments. Somehow, he always pictured John in a jumper.

Finally, he stepped back and closed the wardrobe door. He glanced at the bureau, but decided to save that for another day.

Sherlock went back downstairs and sat at the computer to solve a couple of ridiculously easy cases that had appeared on the website.

By late in the afternoon, he had come to a decision without even really being aware of having actually thought about it. He texted Angelo to be sure the table by the window would be available and told the man to pick a good bottle of wine.

After a long hot shower, he went into his own room to dress. Black suit. The aubergine shirt that was John’s favourite, even though he was not sure that John even realised that. There was a perfect ¾ of an inch of cuff showing below the jacket sleeve, matching precisely the amount of collar showing in the back.

He gave the already gleaming shoes a quick rub.

Once his hair was dry, he applied two complementary products until every strand fell into place perfectly.

Finally, with one eye on the time, he ran the clothes brush over the suit and pronounced himself to be ready.

A few minutes later, he was standing in the middle of the parlour when he heard the front door open and then the sound of John’s footsteps. The man was whistling, indicating a good mood, which, hopefully, meant he would be amenable to Sherlock’s plans for the evening.

John came in and smiled at him. “Hi, Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Have to change. I have a date with the new receptionist at the surgery.”

Sherlock at first thought that he must have misheard. “A date?”

Already on his way out of the room, John paused, still smiling. “Yes. Remember? That’s when two people who like one another go out and have fun.”

“I remember. Tedious,” Sherlock said.

John gave a snort of laugher and hurried up the stairs to his room.

Sherlock gave a tug to the bottom of his jacket and smoothed the front of the aubergine shirt. Then he went to the sofa and stretched out.

When John called out a cheery good-bye a few minutes later, Sherlock ignored him.

 

6

As a child, Sherlock had always loved fancy dress parties.

From the age of four every time such an occasion came along, he dressed as a pirate. Then, when he was twelve and getting ready for a New Year’s Eve gala, Mycroft laughed and called him a baby for still donning a pirate outfit. Without saying a word, Sherlock took off the flouncy-sleeved shirt, the black breeches and the eye patch, put them into a box and shoved said box to the back of wardrobe.

He refused to attend any fancy dress parties after that.

At Baker Street, he had a second wardrobe devoted entirely to his disguises. Disguises, not costumes, as he repeatedly told John. Secretly, he rather relished cases that allowed him to dress as a fireman or priest or gipsy fortune-teller.

To his _very_ secret regret, no case had ever required him to dress as a pirate.

Now, ironically, he was in disguise every day.

Nothing exotic, of course. Just whatever would help him blend into the background, go unnoticed.

On one occasion, in some American state he never really remembered the name of, he passed as a university student in Levis hacked off just above his knees and a Cleveland Indian t-shirt. In Florence, Italy, he was an exceedingly camp artist in flowered shirts and a wispy goatee. Most recently, he’d been a surfer on a Rio beach, albeit one with a fake cast on his arm so that he never actually had to get on one of the bloody boards. He thought that John would have laughed at him in the baggy floral shorts of lime green and pink. The cast actually came in very handy, as it held the small pistol with which he killed Lestrade’s sniper.

But the heat of that beach was only a memory now.

It was snowy and cold in Chicago and his jacket was not nearly warm enough. Not bothering to think wistfully of his Belstaff, now housed in Mycroft’s guest room [because once one started to think wistfully of things left behind it could lead to a very dark place] Sherlock found a Salvation Army store in a rundown mall near the cheap motel where he was staying and went in.

Sadly, there were no acceptable coats on offer that would fit him, so after picking up a thick plaid flannel shirt, he moved to a table stacked with second hand jumpers, still not allowing himself to be wistful. At the bottom of the pile, he found a oatmeal-coloured horror. Foolishly, he lifted it to check the scent.

It did not smell of home. It did not smell of John.

But it looked warm and it looked familiar, so he left the shop with the shirt, the jumper, and a pair of fake leather brown gloves that reminded him not at all of the gloves he wore in London.

Once back in his tiny room that he assumed must be clean because it reeked of bleach and something that was probably supposed to be evergreen, Sherlock put on the shirt and then pulled the jumper on over it. He paused to study himself in the mottled mirror, adjusting the collar of the flannel shirt properly.

John would giggle at the sight.

Sherlock had to leave then for a meeting behind a deserted shoe factory. A meeting that he hoped would provide information that would put him several steps closer to being back in London. It was likely to be a cold wait for his contact, but he thought the jumper would help.

Two days later, leaving Chicago and headed for a much warmer place, he packed the one small knapsack that was all he ever carried. It made sense to leave behind anything unnecessary. Like the flannel shirt and the cheap gloves. For some reason, however, he crammed the jumper into the very bottom of the bag.

 

7

The silence was a palpable presence in 221 Baker Street.

Even in the front foyer it was too quiet, no murmur of crap telly coming from Mrs Hudson’s flat, no rattling of pots and pans. She was no doubt still dancing, although her hip would punish her for it the next day, the silly woman.

_Who left a wedding early?_

Well, everyone knew the answer to that now, didn’t they?

Sherlock Holmes, of course. The man who loved to dance, but had no partner and who never could have had the only partner he really wanted. The man who once had a friend, but lost him by the very act of saving him.

Ironic, he supposed, if one bothered to think about things in that way.

Sherlock finally walked up the steps to his own flat. Just his now, as it had been ever since his return, of course, but somehow tonight it seemed even more of a solitary place. He took off his coat and hung it carefully. It occurred then that he had left the hat behind. Hopefully someone would pinch it.

He walked straight through to his bedroom, flicking on lights as he went, perhaps hoping that just illuminating the silence would make it less deafening.

A note for scientific reference: Brightening the loneliness did not dilute it.

The box in which his wedding suit had arrived was still on the bed.

There had been a struggle with John over the fact that Sherlock insisted on paying for both of their suits. Left to his own devices, John would have probably gone for hired togs, but Sherlock was having none of that. Finally, he just asked John to let him make the gesture as one more apology. Mary made some caustic comment from the kitchen where she’d been doing the washing up, but they both ignored her. Eventually, John just nodded. The cost had been ridiculous, but bespoke was worth every pound.

He slipped off the shoes, which were really perfect for dancing.

Sherlock removed the one-button jacket, folded it carefully, and put it into the box. He did the same with the beige waistcoat. The crème tie was rolled and tucked into the corner. He slowly unbuttoned the white shirt and removed the cufflinks. Those had been a best man gift from John. Sherlock put them back into the tiny silver box they belonged in, before setting it down on the top of the chest of drawers containing his sock index.

He folded the shirt, then quickly removed the grey trousers and added them to the box.

Silk pants.

Silk socks.

Finally he stood there, naked, stripped entirely of the armour that had protected him all day. He put the lid onto the box and tied the ribbon that held it closed. Then he opened the wardrobe and pushed the box into the very back, where, as far as he was concerned, it could stay until it rotted. Or the apocalypse, whichever came first.

Sherlock took a pair of soft, worn jogging bottoms from the drawer and pulled them on, adding a faded worn t-shirt and then finally donned his blue dressing gown.

The thing to do, he decided, was to check the website and see if perhaps an interesting case had come in.

Life went on.

But first things first.

The chair had to go. It blocked his view of the kitchen.

Since hauling it upstairs would have been far too much trouble, he just pushed it into his own bedroom, settling it in the corner. Easy to ignore.

Or not.

 

8

Now this could prove to be an interesting experiment.

Moisture Absorption Rates on Various Fabrics, possibly.

Or: Blood Coagulation Rates As Affected By…

His mind wandered a bit at that point.

Or he could make a comparative study: Which hurt more, being shot in the chest by a traitorous bitch or having one’s thigh slashed by a blasphemous vicar?

His silk pants were beginning to feel rather sticky. Probably would just have to write them off. Very difficult to get blood out of silk. Could be done, of course.

1\. Lay the stained silk item on a flat surface.

2\. Blot the excess blood with a cloth or paper towel.

3\. Mix one teaspoon of salt….

Well, there were twelve more steps, but he didn’t want to think about them at the moment.

He shifted just a bit against the hard concrete floor.

What about the fine wool trousers? They were not new, several years old in fact, but wool lasted. He hoped they could be cleaned.

As the pool of blood spread around him, Sherlock decided that the aubergine shirt was probably a lost cause. Shame that; it was his favourite. Well, after a fashion. It was John’s favourite, so…

And at least it wasn’t the Belstaff, which on such a warm day was at home.

It struck him that it was a bit sad that he was going die [was he?] just a week after his most secret dreams had come true. This very morning, for the fifth day in a row, he had awakened with John Watson in his bed.

The bitch was gone forever, the infant was with her real father, David, and John claimed to love Sherlock Holmes. Acted as if he loved him.

John. Sherlock realised that he should have texted him earlier, not waiting until just before he arrived at the derelict church. Had he been there, probably the ex-soldier would have noticed the knife that the vicar was holding behind his back. He tended to be more suspicious of people. Usually. The one exception did not bear thinking of.

In the moment, Sherlock had thought that a vicar might well go to his knees in a moment of stress. To pray. Not to drag a sharp blade across someone’s leg, slicing a vein. Shouldn’t a holy man be better than that? He could at least have offered up some blessing, but instead the vicar just left. Not before throwing Sherlock’s phone out the window.

It was enough to make a person cynical.

Sherlock thought about closing his eyes, just to rest for a bit, but at that moment he heard a door crash open, followed immediately by the sound of John’s voice. “Sherlock! Where are you?”

Sherlock thought he might have made a sound and then a moment later John came running into the room. “Jesus,” he said, dropping to his knees next to Sherlock.

“Careful,” Sherlock whispered. “Don’t get blood on your trousers…”

Already John was dialling 999 and at the same time he was using one hand to press against the wound on Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock let his fingers twist into John’s jumper, mindless of the blood soaking into the oatmeal coloured fibres. “I can fix it,” he said. “Hydrogen peroxide…tap with a brush…”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said fiercely. “Shut up and stop fucking bleeding.”

Sherlock felt John’s lips press against his forehead as they waited for the medics to show up.

 

9

The simple truth was that Sherlock Holmes felt as if he had done quite enough wedding planning for one lifetime, no matter how much he wanted to tie himself to John Watson. Or, more honestly, tie John Watson to him.

The solution was easy, of course. He simply turned the whole thing over to John. Who almost immediately enlisted a delighted Mrs Hudson to assist in the task. John’s only request was that it be different. That good woman had no need to ask “Different from what?”

Sherlock, who had been [apparently] ignoring the conversation, didn’t even look up from the microscope as he said casually, “Talk to my odious brother about his massive garden.” 

Later, when they were alone and eating leftover Chinese, Sherlock admitted that there was one part of the occasion that he wanted left entirely to him. When he said what that part was, John only laughed softly. “You have wanted to choose my wardrobe for years, haven’t you?” he said, gathering the plates and chopsticks and heading for the kitchen.

Sherlock wondered if this were one of those moments when complete honesty would serve his purposes. How would John take to being told that it was not his _style_ of clothing that Sherlock objected to? The jumpers and khakis and plaid shirts suited John perfectly. No, what drove Sherlock around the bend was the _quality_ of said garments. Soft cashmere jumpers and bespoke khaki trousers would have been lovely.

He was still mulling over whether John would take offence or not, when he stuck his head in from the kitchen. “Fine, love. You’re in charge of clothing for the day. Just no monkey suits.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “And no hats.”

“Oh, good. I look forward to seeing your curls tousled by the breeze.” Then John went back to the washing up.

*

The only thing John had to do was journey down to Jermyn Street [not Saville Row where he’d gone the first time he’d been subjected to bespoke; Sherlock clearly took ‘make it different’ to heart.] for measurements and one fitting. He bore it all with good humour and then clearly enjoyed himself greatly, watching as Sherlock went through the same process.

*

The wedding day dawned sunny and warm with a light breeze. Mycroft’s garden was in glorious bloom and even Mycroft himself seemed in good spirits.

They dressed separately, Sherlock in the second best guest room and John in the best one.

Sherlock’s linen suit was black, his silk shirt the darkest blue [he had considered aubergine in a nod to that old favourite shirt he knew John had loved but the colour seemed to brush too closely against the rule of making everything ‘different’]. The waistcoat was the palest creamy yellow. His trousers were slightly less fitted that was usual for him, but the shirt clung to his body in the way he knew John liked. Black silk pants and socks. He fussed with his hair, taking extra care not to add too much product. The curls had to tousle in the wind.

The best moment of the day [of Sherlock’s life?] was when John Watson stepped out of the room, ready to become his husband.

The linen suit was in a colour called ‘stone’, the closest thing to khaki that had been available. His silk shirt was a faded green; the waistcoat a tidy plaid in yellow and green. A yellow pocket square just peeked out, matching the socks. Everything fit perfectly.

Sherlock had waited for John so that they could walk to the front of the garden together.

He smoothed the front of his waistcoat and tugged each shirt sleeve just a bit. 

John smiled at him.

 

10

 

Sherlock woke slowly to the sound of rain pelting against the bedroom window. Apparently the idiot from the BBC was unexpectedly correct last night when he warned about an unseasonal cold front passing through Sussex.

Well, no matter. They had not planned to leave the cottage today anyway. A quiet celebration with just the two of them suited.

He stretched in the otherwise empty bed, loosening night-stiffened muscles so that he would be able to move easily when he arose.

Oddly, over the years, their sleeping habits had gone topsy-turvy. Sherlock seemed to be trying to make up for all the sleep he had forgone in earlier times, while John was restless by dawn, not with nightmares, exactly, but with a desire to be up and about for reasons that Sherlock did not really understand.

Didn’t matter anyway.

As the smell of bacon frying and something sweet baking reached Sherlock, he finally pushed the duvet aside and got up from the bed. A sudden gust of wind caused the rain to pound even harder against the window. Not even the dog would want to venture out today for any longer than absolutely necessary.

After a moment, Sherlock went to the large oak wardrobe. Just because they were not going out anywhere to celebrate the anniversary did not mean he would not make an effort. John deserved that. And a quick glance at John’s side of the large wardrobe let Sherlock know that his husband had decided similarly.

So Sherlock took a moment to consider before reaching for his clothes. It was a chilly, rainy day, which meant some cosiness was required.

He went into the en suite and had a quick shower, because, after all, it was their anniversary and at some point a physical acknowledgement of that fact was not out of the question. Not that they needed an excuse, even now. Sherlock paused for a moment, smiling. Then he pulled on white Marks and Spencer pants and some warm heather-toned socks. He ran the razor over his face, brushed his teeth, and rubbed a little product into his almost entirely silver hair. Finished, he returned to the bedroom and dressed.

Soft wool grey trousers that clung to his still-narrow hips. A paler grey shirt that John liked. A knit heather-coloured waistcoat. Finally, still a bit chilly from his shower, Sherlock added a deep aubergine quilted dressing gown that had been a Xmas gift from John and then sat on the padded bench to put on soft leather slippers.

With one quick check in the mirror to assure that his curls were properly in place [meaning, of course, perfectly out of place] he left the bedroom and walked down the corridor to the kitchen. As he entered the room, John, just taking the bacon from the pan, looked over his shoulder at him and smiled. “There’s my beautiful boy.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Hardly a boy, John.”

“To me, always.”

As predicted, John had indeed also dressed up for the day. His best corduroy trousers, dark brown, which went nicely with the chocolate cashmere jumper. The collar of his yellow shirt just peeked out.

Sherlock walked over and kissed him. “Happy anniversary, John,” he said, knowing that his husband would hear everything that wasn’t being said.

John set the plate of bacon down and wrapped both arms around him.

Sherlock was very glad that he had taken the trouble to dress up a bit. He nuzzled John’s neck before kissing him again and then they sat down at the table. Gladstone was stretched out between their chairs so that he could be slipped bits of bacon by either [or both] of them. Outside, the rain continued to fall as John spooned too large a serving of scrambled eggs onto Sherlock’s plate.

Sherlock realised that he had been amiss, not for the first time during their marriage. “You look very nice, John,” he said belatedly. “I should have said.”

“Thank you, love,” John replied, dolloping brown sauce over his own eggs. “Oh, I forgot,” he said, pushing himself up carefully and shuffling back to the cooker. The weather was doing his bad leg no favours. It was not the psychosomatic war wound that caused the problem, but the after-effects of being pushed down a flight of stairs by a serial killer nearly two decades ago.. Old age, John always called it. Which always lead Sherlock to prove that neither of them qualified as ‘old.’ Grabbing a mitt, John opened the oven and took out a pan of cinnamon buns. “I thought the day deserved something special.”

Sherlock watched as his husband cut two buns, giving them each one and then sitting down again. Finally, John poured two cups of tea. Sherlock spread a serviette out on his lap to protect the dressing gown from crumbs and started to eat the breakfast John had made for them

Later, he would undress John carefully and John would remove Sherlock’s clothes in turn, something that always seemed, to Sherlock, more like an act of reverence than a prelude to sex.

He smiled across the table at the one person who had always seen the real Sherlock Holmes, no matter how Sherlock tried to conceal himself.   
It was good to be known.

 

*

There seemed nothing better to do on this rainy day than go back to bed.

John untied the sash of Sherlock’s dressing gown and slid the garment off. After folding it carefully, he set it on the bench. Next, he unbuttoned the soft waistcoat. All Sherlock had to do was lift his arms, one at a time, so John could remove it. Then his surgeon-soldier fingers, gnarled a bit these days but still tender, unbuttoned the shirt; one finger or another brushed Sherlock’s chest, perhaps accidentally, but the pale skin responded. The shirt joined the waistcoat and dressing gown on the bench.

Sherlock had meant to say something earlier. “Thank you, John,” he murmured now.

John, his fingers now resting on Sherlock’s flies, quirked a grin at him. “It was a rather lovely breakfast, wasn’t it?”

“Not for the breakfast,” Sherlock said. The _idiot_ was implied.

Instead of responding, John, now on his knees, nuzzled into Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock’s fingers combed through John’s white hair almost absently.

Finally, John opened the belt, unzipped the trousers, pulled them down. He placed one quick kiss on the nascent erection inside the white cotton pants. “Sit,” he said after tugging the pants down as well.

Sherlock took two awkward steps backwards and dropped to the bed. Still on his knees, John scooted forward. He removed both leather slippers and the warm socks, then held one foot, massaging it, kissing the arch; he repeated the actions with the other foot.

“I meant to thank you for…everything,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Everything?” John said, quiet humour. “Not sure I deserve that.”

“You do.”

John pulled off the trousers and the pants. Instead of folding them, he simply tossed them onto the bench. “Well,” he said, “I could say the same to you.”

Naked now, Sherlock stretched out on the bed. 

Using the bed as leverage, John pushed himself up. Then he just stood there and gazed down at Sherlock.

“You know me,” Sherlock said.

“Well, yes, I do.” Again, there was faint amusement in John’s voice.

“You _know_ me,” Sherlock said again. It suddenly felt very important to make John understand.

And when John spoke again, his voice was soft and true. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“Now get naked,” Sherlock said briskly, forgetting his earlier plan to unwrap John like a gift.

“Always the romantic.” John pulled the jumper off, followed by the shirt. He toed off his shoes, leaned against the wall to tug off his socks, quickly dispensed with his trousers and pants.

He slid into the bed, which really meant sliding into Sherlock’s arms. Both men sighed without even knowing that they had done so. “It’s like a homecoming every time,” John said softly.

Sherlock’s lips were planting fluttering damp kisses on John’s face. “You’re romantic enough for both of us,” he said.

It was a well-practised dance by now, a waltz performed by two men who knew each step by heart. Perhaps less frantic than it had been, but no less urgent. Hands, tongues, teeth all moved in harmony, accompanied by whispered words that could never be said or heard too often.

Finally, as the rain continued to crash into the window, Sherlock took them both in hand and then, with a few practised strokes, over the edge. It was as familiar as the taste of tea sweetened with honey; it was as necessary as oxygen.

He was naked before the eyes of the man who loved him. Stripped bare of all the armour. “You know me,” he breathed into John’s ear.

“I love you,” John replied.

And then they slept, still holding onto one another.

 

-fini-


End file.
